


The Man and the Infinite.

by thewolfsbane



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bioshock Infinite, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal, Anal Sex, Clubbing, Crossover, Gay Bashing, Gay Sex, Hating on Gays, Hatred, Jealous Derek, M/M, Oral Sex, Triggers, bioshock crossover, first bioshock crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolfsbane/pseuds/thewolfsbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the year 1955 and Stiles has been brought up in a heavily religious home. His father, the local Sheriff in Beacon Hills, seizes an opportunity for his son to escape sin and be sent to Columbia; the city in the sky. But on Stiles' arrival, his guide is none other than the furry eyebrowed Derek Hale. The two become close friends, but will they become more in a world and time that hates such things?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, after multiple playthroughs of the beautiful game Bioshock Infinite, I wanted to write something about it. Whilst my mind wondered off in Media Studies class, I thought of Columbia with one Stiles Stilinski in it, wearing a waistcoat. I've always wanted to write a Teen Wolf fic set in the 1800s or 1900s and this seemed to be a prime opportunity inspired by my love for gaming and game design. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, I would like to point out that if any of you cool cat Christians out there get offended by the Christian references, the religon on here is based off Bioshock Infinite's religious references and research of heavily religious families in the 1950s. Thanks!

1955, Beacon Hills.

 

Mr Stilinski had become concerned of the amount of violence Earth was creating for his predominantly Christian family. As the Sheriff in Beacon Hills, he saw first-hand the ever growing crime rate of their hometown and he feared that the violence would then poison his sons mind thus meaning he would subsequently rid himself of all faith. This frightened the Sheriff beyond despair, until he heard of the majestic city above the clouds; Columbia. Concerned members of Beacon Hills Church were terrified that the future men and woman of the Christian faith were being exposed to the nastiest of images in the society they lived in and that only the great prophet Comstock could lead them from temptation and sin. To Mr Stilinski, this sounded like the prime opportunity to ensure Stiles’ smooth guide through the Christian faith, and that his mind would be prevented from the seedy thoughts the people around him wished him to think in this hellish town.

 

_“Offer us your sons and daughters so our beloved prophet can wash thee of sins, lead thee from Sodom and be taken to thine’s own land. Tomorrow, at noon, we will take forth your children to the mighty God lands and guide them away from darkness and into the light. They will live in the glory of the great prophet Comstock, and forever they will dwell in Columbia.”_

When the Sheriff returned home from his educational church service, he began to question Stiles’ safety in this world and whether or not Columbia was the best place to preserve his faith. The Sheriff knew that Stiles was not as devoted to God as he would like, but he would not be dissuaded from this chance. Columbia rarely opened its doors to the lands below, and denying this unplanned miracle would be the greatest mistake of his life.

Stiles was currently at school, but he would not be too far away. The Sheriff knew that Stiles was going to Columbia at noon tomorrow whether his life depended on it. He would not see his son be exposed to ungodly sinners.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Stiles? Is that you?”

“Yes, father.” Stiles spoke back to the voice which appeared to be calling from the living room.

“Come to me, son.”

Stiles wandered down the hall, hanging up his coat and scarf along the way. It seemed to be much colder this winter compared to the last, and all those who wandered outside felt the nip of the crisp air against their cheeks.

The Sheriff sat in a large armchair, of which he had inherited from his deceased father five years ago. Stiles’ father looked concerned and tired; being a Sheriff was not on the simple side.

 

“You are moving away tomorrow, son.” The Sheriff murmured wearily.

Stiles was only that of confused. Not only was he not eighteen yet, but he had not gained entry to a university as an excuse to leave.

“Where to? I am seventeen, and I have no means of money or education if I am not here.”

“This town is turning to ash, my boy. Our God would not want you to be surrounded by sinners. These folk only seek to spoil your faith in Him. Father Finstock has asked for us to volunteer our children to Columbia.”

“You volunteered me? Father, whilst I share your faith, I do not want to dwell far from the Hills. This is my home.” Stiles protested in a formal manner. He was almost disgusted that his own father had offered him without permission. Stiles often found that his father’s decisions were based more from his own opinions and love for God than Stiles’ own.

Mr Stilinski sighed and for a moment he gazed solemnly at Stiles, who was now leaning against the door frame to the living room.

“If you shared my faith, son, you would go to Columbia whether I asked you or not. I have packed all you need and have laid an outfit for you on your bed for you to wear tomorrow. I shant be coming with you, son, but you must promise me to spend your time wisely there. Bathe in the glory of the prophet, the fathers and God. Learn and live there. It is my only wish for you.”

Stiles sighed, knowing that his father’s decision has been made and that there was no choice in it for him.

“Is this an order?” He attempted.

“Yes.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sun rose far quicker than Stiles would have liked. After a brisk wash, he hurried back to his bedroom. Only a fair white towel hung from his hips, and the insipid skin of his torso dripped sodden. His father had laid some fairly new clothes on Stiles' bed, in which now rested on the arm chair beside his bed; a red plaid shirt, fine grey and pleated pants, and a matching waistcoat. As always, Stiles wished to add his own twist on this outfit, so he paired it with his dark grey flat cap. This ensemble did not roam far off his usual attire which was to Stiles’ liking; looking like a pompous was not what he was going for. The waistcoat hugged his waist immaculately, and the pants outlined his hips and legs.

 

The Sheriff was most thrilled for noon; seeing his son pass through the clouds to Columbia. All of those who had been put forth for Columbia awaited departure at the docks. Stiles was not at all phased by water, or passing through it, but the weather today was seething with bad luck. The parents of all the boys and girls shook the Fathers hand and thanked him for the opportunity, including the Sheriff.

 

“Thank you, Father Finstock. I am forever in yours, and the prophets, debt.” He exclaimed, holding onto Stiles’ shoulder and shaking it with pride.

“My boy is going to fit in so well up there.”

 

 

 

Eventually, after all of the suitcases and other belongings had been loaded onto a separate row boat, the Father commanded that all the children say goodbye to their parents and get into one of the three boats. Stiles only spotted five teenagers amongst the mess of adults; and there was six or so children present too.

The Sheriff placed one hand on each of Stiles’ shoulders and looked his son in the eyes.

 

“Son, you be good up there.” He smiled, tears pricking at his waterline.

“Don’t you be a goon.”

Stiles smiled at his father and pulled him into a tight embrace. After a fatherly pat on the back, the Sheriff pulled away.

“Now, off you go.”

 

Stiles shrugged and headed for the boats the floated ungracefully in the water. The Father was waiting by the boat that Stiles clambered into, gesturing for the remaining children to do the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles was one of two children on his boat. Two chaperones, by the name of Rosalind and Robert (if Stiles recalled correctly) were guiding the boat the lighthouse. They were wearing the most hideous of coats; spoiled yellow with matching rain hats.

 

“Are you nervous?” Rosalind asked.

“Should I be?” Stiles sighed, the thought of not being with his father reining upon him.

“Not at all, my sweet.”

For the rest of the way, the boat was quiet, only a few jostles from the people on board attempting to hang on in the rough sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Lighthouse was not as glamorous as Stiles thought; the fact it was covered by cloud and was only viewable by many alit torches most likely did not help. Everyone eventually managed to get themselves out of the boats, Stiles almost falling into the sea on his way onto the ground. Father Finstock led the children along the uneven cobble to the entrance of the Lighthouse.

Inside was not as expected either. It was old and unclean; signs that it had lacked tender loving care for many months.

A bowl of holy water was centre to the stairs and Father Finstock anointed each of the children’s heads as they passed by. Stiles was never particularly fond of the holy water process, but he never knew why.

As they ascended the stairs to roof, the air got colder and colder. Stiles was now regretting that he left his coat in his case.

In the centre of the roof top, a spherical shaped room with three bells on the door adorned the area. Each bell had a small symbol engraved onto it; a scroll, a key and a spear. In a precise order, the Father rang each bell, and they order somehow triggered a mechanism to open the windowed rooms doors. In the centre, the chair that had been written about in many history books at Stiles’ school. It is said that when one sits in the red leather chair, metal walls form around you and you are propelled into the clouds. Now, this was something Stiles was not fond of; heights. Ever since he was a small boy, heights were a big problem in his life. Climbing trees was a definite no in his childhood, let alone being shot fifteen thousand feet into the air.

 

“Now, everyone. When you reach Columbia, each of you will be met by a guide. You need not wait for everyone to get to Columbia. Your guide will be your…well…guide!” Father Finstock laughed.

“Anyone want to go first?” He called as they all formed a herd around the chair. A small boy, probably only nine years old, raised his hand.

“Ah, yes! Come forth, child!”

The little boy raced into the seat. He was giddy and excited as portrayed by the wide toothed grin on his face.

 

When he finally managed to get into the seat, his feet and wrists were immediately restrained with metal bars and eight small metal walls connected themselves around him. His grin drooped to a look of fear. Stiles almost grinned, knowing the boy was not prepared for what was about to come.

 

_5… 4… 3… 2… 1…_

The capsule was sent up into the air in a magnificent fashion, and all of the remaining bystanders oohed and ahhed. Reluctantly, Stiles stepped forth. He wanted to get this over and done with.

 

“Me. I’ll go next.” He shivered. Father Finstock smiled and waved his hand at the seat. Stiles slumped into the seat, feeling the cool metallic bars hold his feet and wrists into place.  As the wall formed around him, a woman’s voice was heard from inside the capsule; apparently the outside viewers could not hear it.

 

“Make yourself ready Pilgrim. The binds are there as a safeguard.” She said, her voice grainy.

“Ascension… Ascension in the count of five…four…three…two…one…”

 

The capsule shook and rattled and Stiles was sent speedily into the air. He held his breath.

 

“Ascension…Ascension.”

 

“Five thousand feet…ten thousand feet…fifteen thousand feet.”

 

Stiles broke through the stormy weather and above the clouds. The light was so bright, Stiles squinted for a moment before he regained focus. Before him, a floating city. A glorious city.

 

“Hallelujah.” The voice rang for the final time.

 

Directly in front of him was Monument Island, surrounded by beautiful weather. Stiles had read about the beautiful angel that decorated the near centre of Columbia. It was something only to exist in dreams, but now, it was before him. Flags flew in the wind outside and sky ships as big if not larger than Hindenburg flew through the city. Stiles smiled and forgot for a second that he was in mid-air until a sudden jolt of the parachute releasing startled him back to reality.

 

Stiles’ capsule floated gracefully down into the Welcome Centre slots, passing posters of the Prophet on his descent. His tranquility was broken when the case lowered into a dark passage. As he passed through, small quotes adorned the walls in front of him.

 

_“Why would he send His saviour unto us.”_

_“If we will not raise a finger for our own salvation?”_

_“And though we deserved not his mercy.”_

_“He has led us to this New Eden.”_

_“A last chance for redemption.”_

The passages formed a small story. The Garden of New Eden Stiles had heard of. It was one of the first places one would see when leaving the Welcome Centre.

 

The lid of the capsule opened and Stiles stepped forth into what seemed to be holy water. He found his way through the tunnels that strayed off the spot he had landed in until he found a gathering of pilgrims. A Priest stood in front of them; his feet sinking into a deeper pool of water.

 

“Child!” he called to Stiles.

“Come hither!”

 

Stiles wandered forth, the pilgrims making way for him.

 

“You are part of Father Finstock’s group, child?”

 

Stiles nodded, still in awe of his surroundings.

 

“To pass on to the city, I shall now baptise you. Then your feet shall wonder through the Garden of New Eden and you shall be free.” The Priest offered his hand to Stiles, and he took it with no question. Quickly and skilfully, the Priest lay Stiles under the water multiple times before telling him to lie on his back and float through the tunnel behind him. Once again, he did so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Garden of New Eden was more beautiful than Stiles imagined. It was peaceful and calming, roses filling the air with their scent. Humming birds grazed on pollen and gorgeous statuary art ornamented the garden. Stiles stood out of the water and onto the grass, brushing off his quickly drying clothes. He looked around to see the three Founding Fathers gazing upon him; Washington, Franklin and Jefferson. After wandering through the garden for a while, breathing in the scents and taking in the beauty that it was, Stiles found the exit to Columbia. As he pushed the doors open, light once again seeped through into his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The balcony Stiles stood on was lowered to meet with the entry platform into the city. As Stiles walked out into the city for the first time, the pristine beauty was not just in books, but now physically in front of his eyes. All of the faultless buildings stood tall on their floating islands and the air smelt of life. Every building, every window and every cloud in its reflection seemed to be perfectly refined to meet the perfect expectations of Columbia. Stiles was so used to being surrounded by the smell of factories and buildings that corrupted everyday; so the welcomed change of this gorgeous land was accepted with open arms.

Eventually, he spotted numerous sign holders all immaculately dressed. Each sign had a name written upon it. He spotted his own as he walked forward. A sprite man, well built with thick eyebrows, tapped his foot in impatience. He was chewing on a stalk of what seemed to be wheat. He also wore a flat cap, but his attire was complete with a coat and tail. He suddenly realised he was being watched, raised his eyes and gazed at Stiles.

 

“Are you Stiles?”

The man spoke Stiles’ name so easily, as if they had been friends for years. Stiles wandered over to him, nodding. The man placed the sign between his legs and extended his hand, which Stiles took.

 

“I’m Derek. Welcome to Columbia.”

 

 


	2. Rocks at his window.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Stiles begins to settle in at his temporary lodgings, he is warned not to associate with Derek other than when he is being Stiles' guide. But will Stiles listen?

For some odd reason, Stiles had pictured his guide to be a white collared father, or a nun. Something god like to fit the beautiful Christian extremities of Columbia. But thus, a well-built man with hair scattered around his cheeks observed this foreign and scrawny young boy, wearing a slim fitting waistcoat and a nearly identical flat cap to the one he was wearing.

“What happens now?” Stiles said nonchalantly.

“I don’t have my bags.”

Derek took the sign back from between his legs and turned so his back was to Stiles.

“Your luggage is already at your lodgings, sir.” He spoke out towards the city.

Stiles sniggered. He had never once been called sir in his life. He was ever so used to hearing his father be called sir, but not himself. Stiles felt almost rewarded to be called such a title.

“Please, follow me.” Derek added, opening a walk deeper into the beginnings of the city.

 

* * *

 

 

The two wandered deeper into the nadirs of Columbia. There were streets upon streets and delicatessen’s on nearly every corner with the most fine smelling cheeses and breads. The buildings seemed to vary in size; some tens of stories above Stiles’ head and others none other just passing his sight. Every single detail, from the door knobs to the cracks on the pavements, seemed so perfectly refined and perfectly placed. Sky ships flew overhead, and all Stiles could do was stare at the sheer tremendousness of Columbia.

“Excuse me, sir?” Stiles eventually queried to the swiftly moving Derek in front of him.

“What is it?”

“I want to see more of Columbia, besides my lodgings but where exactly are we going? I mean, I don’t know where is what here, so could you tell me?” Stiles stuttered, correcting himself unnecessarily.

 “If you don’t know where is what then what is the point.” Derek laughed, turning his ever so finely distinguished cheekbones towards Stiles.

Stiles was now thinking of how the people were perfectly made here, too. He was jealous that no human on his soil could be produced so finely. In fact, every person the two passed seemed to be beautiful; be it man or woman. Stiles was now repulsed at his town and its lack of good looking folks.

In due course, Derek stopped in front of a cosy looking three-story home; an impeccably sophisticated wooden structure. Above the door, Stiles spotted a hand-carved sign reading ‘ _The Prophets Inn_ ’. It was obviously going to be glorious inside if the title was dedicated to Comstock, after all if it wasn’t, it would be a disgrace to his name.

Derek stood forward and opened the door. The room was candle lit and quiet, and a well-dressed lady sat behind a desk situated in the centre of the room.

“Finstock’s group?” She spoke to Derek as he leaned over the desk with ease. Stiles looked around the room. There were pictures and news clippings framed upon the wall. One read about Lady Comstock’s death and others read of their critically acclaimed inn. The pictures were of Comstock mostly; sitting at his desk, kissing a baby’s head and waving at crowds.

Stiles’ thoughts were broken by a hand resting on his shoulder. He turned around to find it belonged to Derek.

“Come along, Stiles. Your lodgings are upstairs. I will help you unpack.” He muttered, before letting go hastily, like Stiles had done something wrong. But nonetheless, Stiles obliged and lead the way upstairs.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a communal bedroom; the owners noticeably scuffing the floor by dragging in the extra beds to house to cater the numbers in Finstock’s group. The whole floor was scattered with beds and side tables with small candle lamps on them. There was only one draw in the side table, but the group had been asked to pack as little as possible because they will all be given some Silver Eagles to dress themselves later on in their stay at the lodgings. Stiles remembered briefly being told by his father that the stay would be for years possibly, or at least until Father Finstock believed the land below was clean enough for God’s children.

“Here; Stilinski.” Derek read off a suitcase. It was resting on a bed, close to the wall and sunshine poured in from the window beside it. “This is a nice spot.”

Stiles grabbed his suitcase and clicked it open, gradually unfolding, refolding and repacking the clothes into his drawer.

“Do you stay here to, Sir?” Stiles said, momentarily looking over to Derek who was awkwardly hovering near the end of the bed.

“No, I have my own house with some friends.” Derek scoffed, seemingly baffled that Stiles would think he lived in an inn.

“So you work?”

“Yes. I own a-“

“Derek, be useful and watch downstairs whilst grab the boys signature.”

The lady from downstairs had appeared in the doorway with a piece of paper and a quill. Derek’s breathe hitched slightly as he stood up and wandered downstairs. The lady brushed passed Derek and they exchanged looks; ones of anger and intimidation. Stiles looked at the two as they shared their indirect quarrel, his eyebrows knit in confusion and curiosity. Nevertheless, Stiles continued to unpack whilst the lady meandered over to him and stood near him waiting.

“Boy, could you please sign?” She said, moving the paper in front of his hands.

“Where’s the ink dish?”

“It’s self-inking. One of Finkton’s finest pensmiths newest creations!” She exclaimed, looking rather satisfied that she could boast about owning such a thing. Stiles smiled in fascination and signed the form, which seemed to state short brief rules about their short stay here before moving to more permanent of homes, but then again, Stiles never read things that bored him.

“Thank you, and dear? Please don’t associate to much with your guide. He’s not meant to be your friend, just you remember that, okay?”

Stiles looked up at her, befuddled by her statement.

“Why can’t I be friends with him, miss?” He asked cautiously, minding he not offend by questioning her.

“Derek’s not a good influence on most. Whilst he is kind, he does things that God would condemn. You were sent here so your mind would not be soiled by people much like him.”

Stiles was often known to question people’s judgement, especially his fathers, but he thought he should not ask questions in a foreign place. Stiles had only been here for no longer than a few hours, and he felt as though starting up squabbles between locals was not of his best interest this early into the journey he was on.

 

* * *

 

 

As the day went on, and the sun that once poured through the window started to fade into darkness, all of the children Stiles had encountered at the Lighthouse had reached the inn and were settling in. A boy, named Scott, was assigned to the bed next to Stiles. The two boys had been talking all evening, and Stiles had not gone back downstairs since he had arrived. He also had not seen Derek again, which was surprising as most of the other guides were still helping settle in their allocated child.

Scott attended a school rather close to Stiles’ back below. They had a similar taste in music; both listening to the stunning works of Irving Berlin, Frank Sinatra and The Four Lads.

“Children, supper is awaiting you all downstairs.” The lady was back again, this time wearing a pinafore and glasses. All of the smaller broods competed to get downstairs the fastest as if the food was going to evaporate at any given moment if they did not reach it in time. Scott and Stiles walked down the stairs to see that the staff the must work at the inn had shuffled a dining table into the far corner of the room. A pot, big and boiling, sat in the middle of the table cloth. It smelt of soup and chicken.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles was never one to feel lonely or hopeless or scared. He could not recall the last time he missed his father; or felt sad about not seeing him. Stiles was so used to arriving home every day after school, knowing his father was going to walk through the door and tell him stories of thugs and thieves that he had come across that day. But Stiles lay in his bed, still and stiff, staring at the ceiling and hearing Scott breathe next to him. Stiles was scared that he missed his father, it wasn’t like him. He felt like he had gotten used to his father’s existence for so long, that Stiles never really appreciated what it was like to have him gone.

There was a quiet tap on the window near his bed, and fleetingly, Stiles looked towards the sound, but only moonlight was seen leaching through the thin curtains and nothing was heard. But once, twice and three times more, a measly crack was heard against his window. Stiles slid out of bed, rubbing his eyes. He drew back the hangings to see none other than his estranged guide, lurking in the street below. Derek beckoned at him, but Stiles refused. Instead, he undid the window latch and drew it open.

“What?” Stiles tiredly whispered down to him.

“You wanted to see more of Columbia, right?” Derek forcibly whispered back, cupping his hands around his mouth for extra volume. Stiles hushed him briefly, looked back into the room seeing a few of the youngsters shuffle, before leaning out again.

“Yes, but does it have to be at all hours of the morning?”

Derek grinned that wide toothed grin to Stiles, the shadows that fell on his face defining his ever structure features more. Stiles peered back into his room again and then back at Derek. Stiles did not want to break the rules on the first night, let alone with a person of whom he hardly knew. But Stiles was assigned to Derek, so obviously Derek was a trustworthy individual, right?

“What are we going to do?” Stiles eventually added.

“If you want to live and breathe the best side of Columbia, you would come with me, no questions asked. Or you can just sit up there, in your bed, thinking about God, and the Prophet and the Fathers and have a ball of a time doing nothing whilst you are here. Stiles, I am your guide-“ He paused for a moment, observing something in the distance.

“I was asked to be a guide because I am a person who is meant to lead you through unknown things. Do you think I am going to make you go through something you will regret and won’t enjoy?”

Stiles thought about this for a moment. Guides were often full of wisdom and are trustworthy people, and if the Prophet or Father Finstock had personally arranged our guides, would they not of picked good and true people to do such a thing? They would not employ the works of a criminal or a thug; they are people of God, and people of God are virtuous people. Despite what the innkeeper said, Stiles thought it was better to create his own judgement of Derek, than to base it of others.

Stiles looked at Derek and nodded vigorously, and Derek clapped his hands once, rubbing them together.

“Great!” He smiled at Stiles.

“Come! Get dressed and I will wait here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the short chapter, but nonetheless, let me know what you thought!


	3. Good Time Club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy mother butt fucking shit. I am so so so so sorry I have neglected this work. I just kind of forgot how to write it and, well...I have no excuses. I'm so sorry. But I replayed B:I again and I kind of felt inspired to keep going. So I had more of this chapter but it isn't proof read but I knew I needed to put something up so *throws small chapter at you* catch! Please comment and tell me what you think, if you like it, if you hate it etc. It is very appreciated.

Stiles pulled up his trousers and tucked in his shirt. He left his flat cap behind and began to creep quietly down the stairs. He halted at the bottom of the stairs and gazed at the desk where the lady had been. No one was to be seen, and thank God at that. Stiles slipped out of the door and ran around to the side of the building where his handsome guide stood; hands in his pockets and pacing around.

“Took you long enough.” He laughed.

Stiles smiled nervously in return. Derek approached Stiles, rested has hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Stiles to pleasure in the way Derek was dressed. It was ever so fancy for such a man like Derek. He wore tight, black dress pants and a matching coat down to his thighs. It wasn’t too cold out, so Stiles was confused at that.

“Stop worrying, kid.” He grinned. “All is well.”

Derek gestured Stiles along as he began walking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Rules-“

“Rules?” Stiles interrupted.

“Just be quiet and listen.” Derek growled. “God, if I had known that you kids were going to be so talkative, I would not have said yes to being a guide.”

Stiles was taken aback by the use of the Lord’s name in vein, but he wasn’t offended. In fact, it was kind of nice to be around a person who was relaxed. Everyone he had met so far was so tight and conservative. Stiles had not expected anything different, but it was nice to have had Derek for a guide.

“Alright, don’t accept any invitations to leave-“

“Leave where?”

“Stiles! Just listen.” Derek hissed. “Don’t accept any invitations to leave. Don’t drink anything. And finally, don’t make me look bad.”

Stiles nodded, slightly concerned now. And just while he was thinking of all the things that were most likely going to go wrong and all of the times he would most likely forget those rules and the fact that he had already messed up not even 10 hours into being here, they rounded a corner to see the bright lights beaming from a sign that read ‘The Good Time Club’. In between the words Good and Time was a clock with a gear in the middle. The time was 1:17 in the morning; not as late as Stiles had suspected. He noticed two men standing next to the double doors under the sign in suits and looking dapper as everyone else here.

“Stay close to me, okay?” Derek said as he began to take off his coat and throw it on the ground. Now Stiles began to realise why Derek had worn the coat. Derek wore a thin, white shirt that hugged close to his body, the top four buttons undone to show his pecks and tanned skin. He then advanced towards Stiles and began to undo some of Stiles’ buttons and untucked one side of Stiles’ shirt. Stiles was muddled at this but did not hesitate at his touch.

“There. _Now_ you’ll get in.” Derek said, staring at Stiles as if he was a canvas and his work was done. Derek began to saunter up to the guards and chatted to them, Stiles slowly edging towards them too. Derek turned to Stiles and introduced him to the two gentlemen and began to rave about his arrival and how he was not allowed to do anything fun and that Derek was adamant to show him the right side of Columbia. The two men joshed and allowed the two through, wishing Stiles well.

As soon as they got inside, Stiles realised what the name of the club meant. Men and women all dressed well yet provocatively, lined a stage and some were scattered around tables. Two statues of the same man adorned the entrance way as they ambled in. The sound of upbeat jazz music seeped into the air from a band playing up on one of the four balconies. Stiles wasn’t sure if the people in here were rich or perverts. They were dressed to be rich, but acted like predators; climbing on each other, kissing, touching, grinding, drinking. Stiles was a little shy and nervous by it all. He hadn’t seen anything like it.

“Stiles, it’s okay.” Derek smiled. “Just have fun.”

Derek strolled off to a group of men and began to chat and Stiles simply stood where he had entered and stopped and was completely confused as to what fun meant in this place. He stood silently, taking in his surroundings.

“You alright there?” A man was now standing next to Stiles, sipping at what looked to be a whiskey.

“I’m fine, thank you, Sir.” Stiles replied, not making eye contact with the man.

“Sir? Boy, I haven’t been called sir in a place like this from anyone else but the bartender. You’re new, aren’t you?” The man laughed, swigging that last lick of drink from his glass. Stiles nodded and quietly played with the untucked tail of his shirt.

“Booker. Who got you in?” The man extended his hand to Stiles and he took it.

“Stiles. And that man-” Stiles stopped as when he pointed towards Derek, he was dazed at what he saw. Mounted on top of Derek was a lean young man with curly hair and blue eyes. The boy was pecking at Derek’s neck in a needy manner and Derek was pulling at the boys tight curls.

“Ah. You’re with Derek and Isaac?” Booker laughed. “Derek always brings in the quiet types. Well, they start off quiet anyway.”

Stiles was staring at the two men, looking hot and sweaty and enjoying themselves. Stiles could not help but look. He was lured in by their movements and the complete expression of euphoric bliss the two men shared. _Together_. Derek eventually turned his head, locking eyes with Stiles and smirked, before returning to his toy.

“You’re looking at them like you’ve-Oh. You’re his. Oh, how didn’t I put two and two together?” Booker spoke. “You’re the kid he has to show around.”

Stiles nodded, and broke his observation and sought out the rest of the room. Only now did he notice that some of the people straddling one another when he first saw upon his arrival were same gendered couples. Stiles felt peculiar. Not the uncomfortable type of peculiar but the feeling of the unknown kind.

“You want to try?” Booker whispered.

“Try what?” Stiles stuttered.

“You look like you want to give that a go.” Booker gestured towards Derek. Stiles seized up as the offer sounded interesting but he was brought up that this was wrong. The whole thing was wrong; the club, the men, the alcohol. But he felt it right.

“Okay.” Stiles said softly. “Yes.”

 

 


	4. Bloody Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently on a 10 hour bus ride home so I proof read some of the next chapter and figured I'd put it up. The next chapter will be longer. Enjoy. Also, please pay attention to the tags from now on.

Stiles had always been known for being rebellious. Not the kind of rebellion such as arson or theft, but the kind in which he would question anything and everything. His father almost hit him once when he asked if God was even real. But to Stiles, the concepts just sounded ridiculous. He read over the bible many times, and everything just sounded over exaggerated or completely outlandish and bizarre. It was a book of rules to Stiles, and he despised that.

“Wait.” Booker whispered as he and the other patrons fell still and quiet. The band stopped playing. Stiles had hear a faint knock but nothing out of the ordinary. The entire club had gone from loud and boisterous to lifeless and silent. Stiles looked around, seeking the reason as to the inaudibility. Then he heard it again, but much louder and a mans yell. It sounded like footsteps. Big footsteps.

“Quick,” Booker said, as he grabbed Stiles’ hand and pulled him into an empty booth. Everyone was subtly rearranging; men climbing off of other men, women unhanding their girlfriends and one and all had seated themselves in a orderly fashion. The band now began to play again and everyone began to chatter like nothing had happened. Stiles instinctively looked for Derek but he was nowhere to be seen.

“What’s happening?” Stiles asked, completely confused by the whole ordeal in which unfolded so hastily.

“The Founders and their Patriot.” Booker scowled. “Just act normal. They sweep through every now and again. If you haven’t noticed, Columbia is religious and what we were doing is counted as a sin to them.”

And at the very moment Stiles sensed the utter look of frustration Booker was grimacing, the doors in which Stiles had passed through were slammed open and five or so men emerged. With them followed a Patriot that Stiles had only read about. The Patriot looked like a demented George Washington, with black sunken eyes and scarily rosy cheeks.

“Stand down.” A soldier said.

“The old order must burn for the new order to grow.” The Patriot chanted before lowering his crank gun and standing frozen.

“Well, well, well.” A man’s voice was heard, booming from the stage. “Hello, boys!”

It was Jeremiah Fink. Stiles had a bit of a moment. He had read of all of the inventions Fink had provided to Columbia and the Sodom below and was ever so excited to see him in person; but now was not the time. It did puzzle Stiles as to why Fink would be here.

“Slimy bastard.” Booker murmured, interrupting Stiles’ thoughts.

“Why is Fink here?” Stiles replied, leaning close to Booker.

“He puts on this façade, you see. He is only in the Party to get money and help us. He puts on a front that he is all about the Prophet, when really, he loathes everything about him. He hates the rules and the hatred towards coloured people, especially.” Booker mumbled.

Stiles kind of laughed a little bit as he had heard of all the stoning’s that Fink had conducted and The Raffle. _The more you know._

“How can I accommodate you fine Lads tonight?” Fink beamed, looking ever so cunning.

The soldiers remained quiet and circled around the club a few times before heading into the back rooms.

Moments later, a soldier emerged, but not alone. He held a man by the nape of his neck and carried him through the crowds before throwing him up on the stage behind Fink. Then another man was thrown up with him, carried by another guard. The two men lifted themselves up off the floor, but didn’t dare more from the spots they landed. Everyone hushed at that and looked onwards to the guards who were storming the stage. Fink clambered down onto the floor wherein all of his patrons were.

“Dirty scum.” A soldier rumbled. “You are riddled with rats, Fink.”

“Am I?” Fink replied swiftly and sarcastically. “Are you eradicators of such things? I don’t think rats in my club will do well for my trade.”

“These two filthy pieces of smut were doing unthinkable things in your bathrooms.” The soldier replied, approaching the two men and kicking one back to the ground. The soldier then proceeded to kick the man in the face several times, Stiles hearing the cracks and thick blows the heavy waders caused. The soldier left the man unconscious and bloodied.

“I’ll be having to burn my boots now.” He laughed, dragging the edges of his shoes on the floor of the stage in an attempt to wipe off any blood, leaving smudges. Stiles shuddered and went to close his eyes before being tapped on the hand by Booker.

“Keep ‘em open, Stiles. They’ll suspect you, too.”

Stiles watched on as the other man was beaten too, this time with a baton. The metal created a crueller and heavy hit, especially when the soldier lunged back and swung it over the back of his head, leaving him in foetal position on the ground. The soldier completed his vile attack with a sickening smack to the victim’s knee which left the man reeling and screaming.

“Shut up, sodomising pig.” The soldier spat.

“Let this be a warning to you all,” he began, using his baton as a means of pointing. “If I find anything like _this_ again, I’ll have you all banished or executed.”

“Bring them with us.” He added, commanding his soldiers.

The screaming one was hauled out first and the other one Stiles believed to be dead. He was lifeless to say the least and had to be hauled along the floor in order to be taken out. His battered body left blood scuffs on the floor in the form of his dragging.

Stiles wanted to cry and vomit all at once. Not only did he feel sad that they were treated like this, but the mere shock of the violence committed was terrifying alone.

“You okay, Stiles?” Booker asked, after hearing the doors close.

“I’m not sure.” He replied.

“They mustn’t have heard them come in.” Booker stated to nobody. “Come sit with me, if you like.”

Stiles scrambled his body around to Bookers side of the booth, huddling into Bookers chest. Stiles had never been this close to another man. It felt quite nice to him.

“You smell nice,” Booker smiled, placing his hands around Stiles’ waist. They sat there, like that, for what seemed like hours. They didn’t speak or move.

“Booker, let go of him.”

It was Derek, leaning over the table in the booth.

“Why?” Booker snarled. Derek sighed and grabbed at Stiles shirt and pulled him from Bookers grip.

“We’re going.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles and Derek walked side by side down the footpath in which they originally came. It was quiet and awkward and uneasy. They didn’t look nor talk to each other, and Stiles didn’t challenge the silence.

“What was that?” Derek rumbled.

“What was what?”

“You and Booker.”

Stiles did not reply. He thought for a moment, went to say something, but drew his breath and said nothing.

“Well?” Derek enforced.

“Are you jealous?” Stiles scoffed. He’d never felt so confident in his life.

Derek scowled but said nothing and continued walking until they reached the Inn.

“Go inside, sleep and I’ll see you in the morning for your tour.”


End file.
